Oftentimes through the past long, long winter with scurrilous, unruly ideas swirling in my head, I would trundle to bed with a tempestuous Pacific Northwest storm raging, roaring angry and wild through the towering fir and cedar trees trying desperately to rip the land out to sea.
And in the morning after my own voyage through the strenuous night that mad fury would have finally blown out and away, leaving a weathered calm and peaceful blue sky and somehow things would all make sense, once again.
“Who can ever forget
Listening to the wind go by
Counting its money
And throwing it away?”
Quote Taken from poem: Windsong by Carl Sandburg